India, Dec 27 : It is difficult almost impossible to neatly describe what writer director Prabhash Chandra achieves with Alaav. The film defies conventional categorisation. It is neither traditional fiction nor documentary, yet it comes remarkably close to an unfiltered realism rarely seen on screen.
At its centre are two lives: a frail, nonagenarian mother and her devoted caregiver son. What makes Alaav even more striking is that these roles are inhabited by real-life mother and son, Savitri Gossain and Bhaveen Gossain. To say they “perform” may be misleading; they simply exist before the camera, allowing the film to unfold as a deeply intimate and unadorned meditation on mortality.
Over nearly two hours, Chandra weaves long stretches of silence into the narrative, capturing Bhaveen’s near-total withdrawal from the world beyond his home. Occasional visitors students seeking musical or scholarly guidance briefly intrude, only to depart quickly, offering no real interruption to the claustrophobic routine. Even Rita, whose gentle affection provides the sole emotional reprieve for Bhaveen, remains a fragile presence, speaking in broken Hindi as she tentatively imagines a future that lies beyond death.
Bhaveen’s life is defined by relentless caregiving, devoid of sentimentality or hope of release. The camera lingers as he feeds his mother, cajoles her to eat and patiently assists her with the most basic bodily functions. Alaav makes no concessions to viewer comfort; the audience is made to share in the monotony and exhaustion of this existence.
The film is the antithesis of escapist cinema. Instead, it proposes an anti-escapist language of death, where every unrehearsed breath feels sacred. There is no background score, no visual flourish—only the raw, repetitive rhythm of care and dependence. The distant sound of an aircraft overhead becomes a haunting reminder of a world that continues elsewhere.
The bond between mother and son is almost umbilical. Bhaveen speaks to his mother as one would to a child, his tenderness underscored by moments of frustration and rage that emerge from sheer emotional isolation. Chandra captures this terrifying solitude with unwavering focus, refusing diversion or relief.
Alaav resists definition. It is not merely a film, nor a documentary, but an unsettling, compassionate experience one that asks the viewer to sit with death, duty and love without escape.